treat me like a stolen glance
by Acacia Thorn
Summary: Through colours and smiles and hidden moments, this is them. /The Next Generation, through thick and thin./
1. introduction

The Big Next-Gen Competition Thingamabob

_(which I will probably fail at)

* * *

_

Let me try to explain this to the best of my abilities. s i l v e r a u r o r a, Amy is rockin, Mystii, HollywoodNights, xrawrDINOSAURx, Aiiimy, and I are having a sort of Next-Gen competition. It was originally supposed to be just Amy and Ellie, but … um, it expanded.

Anyways, the point is to write fifty-four (yes, **fifty-four**) oneshots featuring every Next-Gen Pairing, and see who can finish first. The rules are simple, and there aren't that many. Each oneshot must be 600 – 3,000 words long, and have the two characters involved _romantically_. There's a maximum of five freeverses allowed, and you have to use three female OCs, one of which is closely related to Scorpius. The main thing is: _write like there's no tomorrow._

(By the way, my OCs will be Faye Harper—a muggleborn witch—Sonika Patil—daughter of Padma Patil and an unknown father—and Lisa Malfoy—Scorpius's younger sister.

That's actually about it. I'll advise you to read the others' pieces – because really, theirs will be _so_ much better than mine, and they probably deserve it more.

[oh, and btw, the title is from The Golden Floor by Snow Patrol]


	2. LorcanRose

forget the world

_word count:_ **854**

**(** lorcan-rose** )

* * *

**

She's something pretty with her Muggle headphones on lopsided, loose ginger curls falling onto her shoulders, but he only sees a glimpse of her as he weaves his way through the ever-familiar Weasley house, looking for Lucy but not really trying. She doesn't trespass in his mind ever again.

(At least, that's what he tries to convince himself of.)

* * *

The fights get worse, the screaming volatile and the whispers almost twice as deadly, and he can't bring himself to hate her, not when there's tears pouring down her cheeks and mingling absently in the strands of her too-long, silky hair, even though she's being plainly insufferable.

"Don't you love me?" she screams during a rather nasty verbal spar, her eyes red and her cheeks blotched with pink. He stops abruptly and considers her yells—he had uttered _those three words_ on many occasions to her, yes, but he isn't exactly sure if he meant them.

After a long, horrible pause, broken only by her uneven breaths and sobs and his own tired sighs, he picks her up in his arms and murmurs into her hair, "Of course I love you, Luce—of course I do," because they're _LorcanandLucy_ and no one's supposed to go together better than them.

He's still not quite sure, though, but he doesn't say so, because there's a Weasley-type-of-pretty girl in his embrace and she's in need of every sort of comfort.

* * *

"Lucy is mad at you," Rose Weasley informs him one day during breakfast. He's mildly surprised, because Rose and Lucy were never that close, as far as he knew. Still, he nods silently and she brushes past him, her skin sweeping against his in the process, and he notices that she smells like lavender and that his heart is beating just a little bit quicker.

He can't stop himself from calling out, "Rose!" after she's a good few feet from him. She turns, her eyebrows raised, and suddenly his throat closes up and he manages to croak out a shaky, "Uh—um—n-never mind … "

She doesn't question him, but he can feel her gaze on his back as he walks away.

* * *

The fight with Lucy is horrendous.

"You're cheating on me, aren't you?" He tries, fervently, to deny it, because he'd _never _do such a thing, but he can see that she won't believe him no matter what, and that it's a hopeless cause.

After a moment's hesitation, he has the audacity to say, "Why're you saying this, Luce?"

She glares at him through her superfluous tears and whispers harshly, "I saw you. With Dominique. In the Room of Requirement."

He sighs deeply and swivels from his position of facing the wall to look at her firmly. "Lucy … that was Lysander, I swear on it."

"No. _No_. It wasn't—don't you go trying to make me look like an idiot!"

Her eyes are ablaze with dancing colours and there are so many harsh, hurt words flying from her lips and dancing on the air in front of her, that finally, he has had enough.

"Lucy, I think we need to take a break."

Lucy's always prided herself on being the sensible one, he knows, even though she's acted as anything _but _sensible for these past few months, so she only nods and agrees and they don't speak to each other again for who-knows-how-long.

He finds himself struggling to care.

* * *

He's assaulted by various members of the Weasley family left and right, front and center. Some offer their condolences, others give him the finger (ahem, Lily Luna Potter, anyone?) and skip off.

"So you broke up with Lucy," Rose states, looking up at him through her bangs, her eyes indifferent. He wonders what happened to the _old_ Rose, the one that would play hide-and-seek with him when they were younger, the one that would always share the last chocolate bar—and he blames it on Malfoy, really, the bloody bad influence.

"Um, yeah," he mumbles, flushing slightly and looking downwards. "Why?"

"Just wondering," she says flippantly, brushing some hair from her shoulder casually. "I can't always believe the absurd rumours my cousins spread, you know."

He laughs weakly. "Yeah … "

A few (awkward) seconds later her lips are on his in a blurry mess of hands tangled in hair and skin clashing with skin. She still smells like lavender, he thinks faintly, and her skin is smooth and a creamy white. As she pulls away he latches himself to her, drawing her in—and then he realizes what he's doing and pushes her away, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.

"I—what—_why?_" he splutters.

"Because you wanted me to," she says in a fashion that's oddly reminiscent of a certain Lily Luna, before smirking at him elegantly and traipsing off, out of the room.

* * *

In the end, through small, whispered arguments and heated kisses and unshed tears, they don't work out, and Lorcan marries Lucy and Rose marries Scorpius, just like it's always meant to be.

(So much for _happily fucking ever after_.)

* * *

. - . - . - .


	3. TeddyRoxanne

**Author's Notes:** … yeah. I'm getting my least favorite out of the way, now.

* * *

smile through broken façades

_word count:_ **664**

**(** teddy – roxanne **)

* * *

**

Somehow he managed to capture you with one look—not that you'd ever say so, and you fell into the background, dating (and going strong, dears) a boy you didn't really like and loving a boy that was just so much more man.

You keep your head held high, but you never really look anyone in the eye, and it's no wonder when they begin to notice that your smiles aren't as cheery and your eyes aren't as bright.

You're breaking.

* * *

Roxanne sighs and glances over at Lysander, who looks nervous and maybe a little bit lost as he grips her hand. He's asking her, frantically, if it'll be okay—and she answers plainly that he'll be _fine_ and that he should stop worrying. This isn't the first time he's met her family.

"Yeah," he says dubiously, "but this is the first time we're announcing ourselves as a _couple_—in front of your entire family, no less!"

"Quit your whining," she grumbles, tugging him inside and duly ignoring his protests. "You've never been like this before."

Before he can open his mouth to retort, they're swarmed with various members of the Weasley-Potter family, being asked a million questions about _why_ they're holding hands and the like. Roxanne answers them in stride, and Lysander does well in controlling his nervousness—kind of. Finally, Teddy comes up to them, a glass of firewhiskey in his hand and a smile across his face.

Roxanne greets him thinly, but he doesn't notice.

"Congrats, you two," he says, hugging Roxanne with one arm. "I'm glad you're happy."

Roxanne smiles ruefully at him, and mumbles, "Right."

She doesn't want to know how many people can see through her not-so-elegantly poised façade.

* * *

He'll smile and you'll smile, and he'll wrap his arm around your redheaded cousin and you'll kiss your cousin's ex (oh, sorry, _your boyfriend_). He'll be in love with her and you'll be in love with him and yes, this is confusing, but you're a teenage girl for fuck's sake, and this is your life.

How very wonderful, you think dazedly, taking a swig from a nearly-empty butterbeer and laughing like you're drunk—which, really, you're not.

* * *

"You're so pretty," he mumbles, scooting closer, and Roxanne allows herself a girlish giggle and an, "Oh, go on," that shouldn't have been coming from her lips. He takes a sip of his alcohol—butterbeer? Firewhiskey? Something muggle? She can't remember. It's all kind of blurred around the edges, like a frayed picture.

"Mm," she mumbles, feeling the slow-and-sensual press of his lips against hers, and she's just living in the moment; she's stopped trying to pretend that this isn't Lysander, because _it is_.

Oh, it is, and how that burns.

* * *

You take a good look around you, and for the first time, you think that maybe the world isn't so bad. There's sunshine, pretty emerald trees, the sky is bright blue, smiles are rich—what's so bad about this world, again?

Then _he_ walks in, and you remember.

* * *

"Fuck, Roxanne, what the hell are you doing? If Lily sees me like this—no, scratch that, if _anyone_ sees us like this—I can't—"

"Teddy," she mumbles quietly, pressed against him, her breath smelling of alcohol and her eyes bloodshot. "Just now. Never again. Just right now."

She kisses him roughly, hands tangling in hair and arms wrapping around waists, flavours mixing with scents, and fuck it all, it doesn't even feel remotely right.

_You may be bad, but you're not _this_ bad,_ a distant part of her mind screams at her, indignant. _Stop it—stop it _now_—_

They simply don't realize that she's far beyond caring.

* * *

You fell in love a long, long time ago, and you'd be lying if you said you fell out of it a while back, too.

* * *

. - . - . - .


	4. ScorpiusRoxanne

**Author's Notes:** … they'll get longer, eventually, I swear! D: But, um, this has got to be my least favorite one, if anyone's interested in knowing, because it came out badly. ^-^

* * *

[cursed to] the high heavens

_word count:_ **1079**

**(** scorpius – roxanne **)

* * *

**

Somehow he manages to fall in love with a girl that has ginger curls and big blue eyes. Somehow she spills her heart over a class clown that has his father's figure and blond hair and scars spiraling up his arms, because all he's ever been able to connect to are the animals (and her, of course, but she's failing to see the difference).

They barely ever spare each other a second glance.

* * *

She walks in on them a week after her birthday, his hands roaming on her body and her lips attached malevolently to his. Roxanne winces, trying to look away—sure, she's seen a million of these scenes at Hogwarts, but it's her _cousin_ and _Malfoy_, damn it, so it's _different_—but somehow, she can't bring herself to. Finally, she coughs awkwardly, and they break apart, lips swollen and breaths shallow.

"Oh, um, Roxy … " Rose looks half-mortified, half pitying. Roxanne finds herself wanting to know why, but she doesn't say so.

Instead, she quips, "If you're going to do _that_"—she grimaces, holding back a revolted shudder—"then please, _please_ take it outside. I don't think everyone will appreciate you two swapping spit … on the _dinner table_, of all places."

"All right, all right," Rose grumbles, holding onto Scorpius's hand and preparing to drag him out of the room. As they pass her, Scorpius leans over and whispers, "Jealous, Rox?" before parading grandly out with an air of someone who was _not_ just caught eating a girl's lips.

Roxanne scowled and glared at the doorframe.

_That little fucker.

* * *

_

A muggle bar at midnight definitely wasn't in her plans, nor did she ever expect it to be—but there was no other explanation for the alcohol in her hands and the deep, dark, fuck-the-world expression on her face.

She sighs and orders another glass of vodka-with-something—she isn't too sure what it is, but hell, it's _free_ and it's blue, her favourite colour, so she doesn't ask too many questions. Taking a shaky gulp of the liquid—it burns like ice—she sets down the glass with a loud _thump_.

Oh, fuck, this hurts.

"_You_ broke up with _him_—you can't just say 'there was no spark' and then beat yourself up about it," Dominique had told her gently, trying (and failing) to comfort the sobbing girl. She had picked her up, bought her some ice cream, and then set her straight. Needless to say, Roxanne was not pacified.

No, what she needed was some good, strong drinks.

Damn, she was spending too much time with her dad and Uncle Charlie.

She shakes her head, bringing her back to present time, and tries to drown out the loud, boisterous laughs of the muggles around her.

"Another one, dear?" the bartender—a fat woman with an apparent bubblegum habit—asks her sloppily. Eyes drooping, she manages to nod.

As the woman places the drink in front of her—this time in a bigger glass—she asks, "Was it a breakup?"

Roxanne's a little taken aback by this directness, but she mumbles out an affirmation nonetheless. The woman pats her hand and offers her a gentle, somewhat comforting smile, saying nothing as she walks off to serve another customer.

The girl with the (maybe) broken heart exhales deeply and buries her face in her hand, oblivious to a blond boy with his father's looks who's watching her ever-so-intently.

* * *

She sighs, feeling the cold night wind whistle against her skin, her jacket flapping aimlessly in the breeze. She shivers slightly, tugging at her shirt and trying to keep her hair from flying around. She hears footsteps—quiet, quick ones—and freezes, preparing herself to make a nonchalant remark and walk away.

Instead, she feels the (much too heavy) pressure of a hand on her arm.

"Rox," is all the voice says. She can recognize it—only barely—but the sound is most definitely familiar. She decides not to panic—yet.

"Yes?" she responds quietly, her voice a nearly-silent whisper, riding on the chorus of the wind. "What?" She turns to find the speaker, and almost immediately her lips curve into an unwelcoming frown. "Leave me the fuck alone, Malfoy," she all-but-spits, eyes slanting into the ever-familiar glare.

He looks untroubled, but when he speaks again, his voice is cool and calculated—not the gentle touch it had been when he first approached her. "I just wanted to talk."

"What could you _possibly_ want to talk to me about?" she demands, not having the patience or the strength to deal with him at the moment. She finds herself wishing to all the gods she doesn't believe in that he will just _go away_, leave her to her broken brooding.

Scorpius sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You know, you're really lucky—to have someone like Lysander, I mean."

She cocks her head to the side slightly, trying in vain to block him out, to escape from the stinging words. "Not anymore," she whispers harshly.

Scorpius smirks slightly, and she finds herself resisting the urge to punch him in his little Malfoy nose. "You still can, though—I mean … you're just—_lucky_."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

Scorpius's smirk dissipates, and he seems to shrink into himself slightly. "Rose … the only reason she stays with me is because her other options don't feel the same way. Sometimes I'm glad, but … "

Roxanne is quiet for some time. Finally, she mumbles, "Does it hurt?"

He shrugs, obviously uncomfortable. "Sometimes," is his vague answer, but she can read the well of emotions behind the word—_always, always, _always_, it hurts like hell._

"She loves you," Roxanne says gently. "No matter what you think, she really does."

"She doesn't realise it yet," he snaps back bitterly.

"She will."

And then she kisses him on the cheek with a low, whispered thank you, and there're no sparks and it's just something friendly—but she knows that Rose would've never approved.

* * *

Scorpius breaks up with Rose soon afterwards and Roxanne talks him back into asking her out—and the cycle begins again, going on and on and on until—

"_Roxanne_ is marrying _Scorpius_?"

* * *

. - . - . - .


	5. HugoLisa

**Author's Notes:** For **AccioHope**, who asked me to write a HugoLisa and therefore cured me from the burden of wondering which pairing to write. ^-^ The prompt given: hostile.

* * *

half-pretty l(overs)iars

_word count:_ **662**

**(** hugo – lisa **)

* * *

**

He catches her eye and winces—_defiance, hatred, prettiness_—before returning to his notes. She doesn't back away as easily, but what's the point in watching him if he'll never watch back?

* * *

They're in a wedding of blacks and whites, joys and sorrows, prettiness and ugliness—and there's absolutely nothing they can do about it. The Malfoys sit in stony silence and the Weasleys—well, most of them, anyways—seem overjoyed.

He's not too sure which side to cross over to—light or dark, they both seem the same—so he settles for the grey, for the neutral, for Switzerland. He approves of this wedding only _barely_—only for Rose, only because it will make her happy.

"I don't approve of this," the girl next to him states loudly, her nose upturned and her expression defiant. She's ignored by the greater part of the population, though her mother gives her a sharp tap on the shoulder with the words of, "Be quiet."

He turns to state that she should just _fuck off_ because it's not her decision to make, but then he finds deep, cold blue eyes staring at him, drilling holes in him, daring him to challenge.

He keeps quiet, musing silently that her hair is fairer than Scorpius's and that her eyes are incredibly pretty, behind all the hate and coolness.

* * *

Rose beams at her family, the ring on her left hand glinting in the light, and greets them with loving looks and tight hugs. Hugo stands in the back, trying not to be seen, but _of course_ he is, and Rose wraps her arms around him and kisses him on the forehead, even though he's _clearly_ taller than her.

"Hi, Rose," he says lamely, trying his best not to be embarrassed by her public displays of affection. A quiet snigger breaks his thoughts, and he traces the sound to a petite girl in French muggle styles with fair hair and pretty eyes, who's apparently tagged along for the family-only dinner.

Then, he remembers that the Malfoys _are_ family, and keeps himself from making a shrewd remark.

"Lisa," he greets her politely—_too_ politely—and she nods, a small smile tugging at her lips.

At dinner, he feels a sharp kick in his shin, and looks into the eyes of his sister, who's obviously trying to tell him to go socialise with Lisa more, because she looks oh-so-lonely—never mind the fact that never talked at school.

So, to please Rose, he looks at Lisa, says, "Pass the peas, please," and promptly shuts up for the rest of the night.

* * *

The dinners become a sort of regular thing now, and the Malfoys are learning to open up, though usually Draco and Astoria stay back at home. No need to socialise with the Weasleys more than necessary, they claim.

"Hugo," says an icily sweet voice, casual and hopelessly petulant. He turns, raising his eyebrows lazily at her. "Can we talk?" She motions not-so-discreetly to the spare room.

He frowns, but nods nonetheless, wondering why his heart is slamming against his ribcage and why she has that so-very-Slytherin smirk on her gloss-coated lips.

Then her lips are on his—oh so defiant—and he manages to figure it out on his own.

* * *

"Lisa," he mumbles, a little scared and a little lustful. "Why?"

"You're cute," she says simply, tugging on the collar of his shirt and smiling serenely. "Especially when you're all embarrassed and flustered like that." She ghosts her lips over his—tempting and delicious and _right there_.

His arms wrap around her waist on their own accord. "But—I have a girlfriend." It's a weak protest, he knows it, and so does she.

"So?" she demands, standing on her tiptoes to achieve his height. "What of it? Dump her."

Then her lips meet his again in a wonderful firework of clichés and burns and years of isolation, and he forgets that he's supposed to be protesting.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** So I finished this and my Secret Santa. :X I'm on a roll :P


	6. LysanderDominique

**Author's Notes:** *cowers* I'm sorry these suck D: Major writer's block, so, yeah. *sadness*

* * *

the rooftop at midnight

_word count:_ **732**

**(** lysander – dominique **)

* * *

**

She's not something like the offspring of Bill and Fleur. She likes baggy shorts and muggle baseball caps and playing Quidditch with the boys. She doesn't like manicures and girl-talks and feelings. She's not _Dominique_.

She's a Weasley.

* * *

They all expect him to be loony, crazy, off-his-rocker. They expect him to spurt nonsense about imaginary creatures and daydream like there's no tomorrow. They expect to see the son of (Loony) Luna and Rolf, the two craziest magical folk alive. They all want to see a Scamander.

But he's kind of just plain old _Lysander_, who's got his head on his shoulders and an unimpressive attendance record, and _maybe_ he's got a soft spot for animals and magical creatures, but that doesn't prove anything.

* * *

So they stick together, through thick and thin, together forever, all that sappy shit that neither really cares about.

It's hard to see one without the other anymore.

* * *

"Lysander?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you believe in love?"

"Not really."

"Good."

"Why?"

"Because Lily and Roxanne both like you."

"Oh. Really?"

"Really."

He starts dating Lily a week later, Roxanne a fortnight after that, and Dominique is left behind, in the dust.

* * *

Dominique likes rooftops. It's quiet; peaceful. He knows that, from the endless number of times they sat up on the top of the Burrow, talking about the color of the sky and how stupid the latest gossip was.

So maybe that's how he knows something's wrong—he can't find her up there.

* * *

Her skirts get shorter and her shirts get lower, her eyelashes coated in mascara and her lips glossed evenly. Somehow she becomes the daughter of Fleur and Bill, within a month, and no one seems to notice the change; if they do, they keep their mouths shut.

She's kissing a boy roughly now, her lips plastered to him and vice versa. As he's kissing down her jaw-line, he mumbles, "What happened to that Lysander guy?"

She freezes for a moment, considering her options. The old Dominique would've punched this guy. The new one, though …

"Who's Lysander?"

The boy doesn't question her further, and she finds herself feeling unbearably empty.

* * *

Sheets ghost over her cold form, and she rolls over, eyes opening slowly, before blinking owlishly at the boy beside her.

"Shit," she whispers at around the same time he almost-shouts, "Fuck!"

She gathers her clothes (and maybe keeps his shirt—but that's a secret) and runs like hell.

* * *

Victoire finds her first, alone in her room, staring brokenly at the mirror, makeup running down her cheeks. She doesn't ask questions, just scoops Dominique into her arms and whispers comforts into her hair.

"It'll be all right, Dom."

_No,_ Dominique wants to scream. _It won't_.

* * *

Lysander has never really been good with words, and so it doesn't break her heart (as much) when he comes to her, blubbering and unprepared.

"Can we talk?" he asks when she opens the door, and she can tell that he expects her to slam it in his face—which is a tempting thought, honestly.

"Sure."

Once they're behind the safety of her door, he whispers, "I'm really sorry."

She sits on the bed, staring at him with emotionless eyes. "About what?"

"About—everything."

"About ditching me for my cousins? About having sex with me while I was drunk?"

"I was drunk, too!" he protests weakly, but she only rolls her eyes.

"Right. Well—I think you're done here."

"Wait … Dom, I … "He sighs deeply and runs a hand through his hair. She looks at the wall, trying to calm her heart and trying to pretend that her eyes _aren't_ burning with tears. She can hear him shuffling uncomfortably.

"I think—I think I love you," he blurts out, and she still doesn't look at him.

"You _think_?"

"Kind of … "

She frowns and raises her eyebrows. "I don't know what to say to that."

He remains silent, and she walks over to the door, opening it and gesturing for him to leave. "Like I said—I think you're done here."

He opens his mouth to protest, but she presses a chaste kiss to his lips and smiles softly.

"Just go, Lysander. You and I both know that you don't love me."

* * *

Two years later, Dominique attends the wedding of Roxanne and Lysander, a knowing smirk on her tired features.

* * *

. - . - . - .


End file.
